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poetry poem

il était un jeune oysterman grand
je fais ma monture, mais personne ne sait
l'odeur du s'est levée si faux, les épines si vraies
quand j'étais a enfoncé à Londres
la lune se levante a caché les étoiles
le corps peut confiner
si le tueur rouge pensent il massacre
maintenant tandis que mes lèvres vivent
un dieu
écoutez
je suis fevered
les jours hypocrites
mon amour vrai de son oreiller a monté
en dessous de cette tombe modeste un conqueror se trouve

 



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